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Staring at the panoply of guest-room tassels, Evan hesitated before replying into the RoamZone, “Tommy?”
Stojack’s voice came crisply over the line. “You already spelunking up my sphincter about your replacement truck? You just ordered it.”
“No,” Evan said. “I need you to arrange a safe house for me.”
“I thought you had ’em scattered everywhere like rat turds.”
“Not in Boston.”
“You want me to set up a safe house inBoston? I am an icon of masculinity and a marksman par excellence. Not a fucking travel agent.”
A feminine voice cut in. “I can do it.”
“Joey?” Evan was on his feet, pacing beside the regal bed, the scent of Winter Mantel diffuser threatening to choke him. “What are you doing? This is an encrypted line.”
“Duh,” she said. “I’m the one who updated the encryption protocols for you.”
“Get off the goddamned call.”
Tommy laughed a low, raspy laugh that threatened to deteriorate into a coughing fit. “Hiya, Joey.”
“Tommy! Hi!”
“Ain’t it cute how his voice gets all tense when he’s mad?” Tommy asked.
“Seriously,” Joey said. “And he’s probably doing that tight-jaw thing, you know, when the corners flex out?”
Evan made an effort to unclench his teeth. “I can’t have you popping onto this line, Joey. That’s a hard boundary.”
“Well,” Tommy said, “I’m gonna let you two dog-sniff each other’s butts and get this domestic matter resolved. Time for me to rack out.”
He hung up.
“So,” Joey said. “Does this mean youdon’tneed me to set up a safe house in Boston for you?”
“You can’t do this again,” Evan said. “Ever.”
“Got it, Mr. Hard Boundaries. Maybe that should be your new code name. Especially since you’re having trouble keeping your comms secure, which seems kinda important if you’re running around calling yourself the N—”
“Josephine.”
“’Kay. What do you need? Where are you?”
“I’m staying at the Seabrooks’ house—”
“You’rewhat?”
A long, cold silence Evan was at a loss for how to interpret.
“Mr. Hard Boundaries?” Joey’s tone was suddenly, intensely angry. “Staying with a fucking client? Two seconds ago you were, like, infederal custody.”
“Ruby had been threatened, so she asked me to—”
“Oh, well, sheasked. That all makes sense now. There’s this thing called the Fourth Commandment you used to care about. ‘Never make it—’”
“She’s a nineteen-year-old kid who—”
“‘—personal.’ You can’t just blow up your operational protocols.What is she, like, your surrogate daughter now? Sure you don’t want to move in for good, pick out curtains together?”
